


What Remains

by yesterday4



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: What would he even tell Jessica?  He still talks to her all the time, made up conversations with made up replies, but, even in his head, he can’t think of how to tell her about all of this.  It’s a Classified mission, which is his excuse.  He tells it to himself, whispers it under his breath, as though he needs a reason to keep secrets from ghosts.

 
Wyatt reflects on the way things were.





	

Wyatt has sand in his eyes.

He doesn’t—not really—but waking up, blurry eyed and confused, reminds him of Afghanistan. He is disoriented, lost, and it is the same as a sandstorm in some butt-fuck nowhere FOB in Kandahar, the bite to his skin, the howl in his head. There is grit in his mouth, feels like, and he clears his throat as he sits up.

This isn’t Kandahar, and, when he reaches out for his wife, his bed is empty. He had thought about that over there, thought about that a lot. Where was Jessica, what was Jessica doing—not in a jealous way, no, but more of a simple longing-to-be-there. _Jessicajessicajessica_ through everything, all the moments overseas he regrets and all the moments he doesn’t. 

Now Jessica is gone, and it takes him a second to figure out what _century_ he is even in, let alone which country.

He keeps a flask in his bedside drawer—let’s not think too much about that, he tells himself—so he gropes for it in the darkness. The fire in his throat is refreshing, and he takes a larger swallow than he probably should. Comforted by it, he settles back against his pillows.

What would he even tell Jessica? He still talks to her all the time, made up conversations with made up replies, but, even in his head, he can’t think of how to tell her about all of this. It’s a Classified mission, which is his excuse. He tells it to himself, whispers it under his breath, as though he needs a reason to keep secrets from ghosts.

Sleep is going to be impossible, and Wyatt gives up soon enough. Switching on his light, he grabs his flask and heads to his living room. His apartment is too small, too quiet; he makes himself both of those things as he sits down, pretending his whole life is a fucking stealth mission. 

She’d write him letters, wherever he was. Quick little Facebook notes too, although he wasn’t around the internet enough for that to be reliable.

_Dear Wyatt…_ they’d begin, her handwriting soft and familiar.

He traces the letters in his mind’s eye, traces them over and over until they are a blur.

**

Lucy is fidgeting. 

Wyatt is not. He takes pride in his stillness, and counts it as impeccable training. His heart is hammering in his chest—he hates when this damned thing takes off—but he refuses to move. Lucy is simultaneously fussing with her coat (“Still _wrong_!”) and fussing with the seat belt. He doesn’t know what her problem is with fastening it, but it amuses him and he feels the beginning of a smile. Rufus is glancing back at them, and his smile becomes shared. Wyatt is distracted by their presence, lulled away from his thoughts. Happy is too strong of a word and this whole thing is fucked right up, but brothers in arms and all that.

The seat belt clicks in too loud. Lucy briefly looks triumphant, but then she is moving again, twitching around in her seat. Wyatt decides to make a point of not looking. 

He does a better job than when she was taking off her bra, in a prison cell a lifetime ago, but he is not going to think about that.

“Hold on to your hats,” Rufus says, in a way clearly meant to be old-timey.

The machine is whirring around them, vibrating and coming to life. Wyatt allows himself a slight shift in weight because he really _does_ hate this. He starts going over the game plan in his head, trying to figure out holes and possibilities and all the things they can possibly fuck up this time. He’s very involved in thinking this when it hits him.

What if Jessica doesn’t exist? It had happened with Lucy’s sister, just gone. The thought is choking. What if the single most important relationship in his whole entire god damned life has become nothing but a figment of his imagination? He's been so preoccupied with going back to _save_ her, and that plan assumes there is someone to save. If only he remembers her, was Jessica ever real?

“I met my wife in a coffee shop,” he blurts. 

It comes out in Soldier Voice, which is his panic default. Lucy looks startled, and he senses Rufus’ flinch. It doesn’t matter. Suddenly, all Wyatt wants to talk about is his wife, this beautiful creature who had lived and breathed and existed and—

Lucy shifts. Her boot knocks against his as she moves closer. She looks like a professor, like she’s studying him. Wyatt valiantly tries to school his features, but Lucy had Amy and Lucy knows. 

He’s expecting her to say something about fate, about not changing history. Clearly, she’s thinking about it. Instead, she nudges his foot, this time on purpose, and says, “Two creams and two sugars, ma’am?”

It startles a laugh out of him. He leans back without moving his foot, taking comfort in the smallest contact. He is thinking about how Jessica’s voice had sounded, how her arms felt closing around him, and how none of that possibly could ever _not_ have happened, when the G-Force punches him in the stomach. 

Wyatt wishes there were windows. Lucy has a look on her face, the same pulled-too-tight piss-your-pants scared look he probably has. It is practically almost a trademarked thing. He wonders how Rufus can navigate through this sick as all hell feeling.

“She liked her coffee black,” he grits out.

All Lucy can manage in response is a grimace, but that is fine by Wyatt. He holds her gaze for a moment too long, and they are both thinking it, memories in their heads as vivid as movies, Jessica and Amy as real as life.

Wyatt closes his eyes. His mind is wandering, because all this is too damned big. He wishes he could travel with his flask, wishes for a lot of things. He pretends he is going back to Kandahar, because at least that war is familiar.

_Dear Wyatt_ , he sees. _Not long until you’re home now!_

Jessica's handwriting, round and pretty, loops through his memory, over and over. _Real_ , he tells himself, real.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Timeless, its characters, or much of anything really! Please do not sue!


End file.
